


The First Rule of Improvisation

by di0brando



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, barry is a bisexual disaster, barry is feeling things and is vulnerable and is trying his best, set some vague time after season 1 except janice is alive bc what the hell bill, this is so sappy like YES it's a boardwalk date what do you expect from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 23:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/di0brando/pseuds/di0brando
Summary: "Some actors thrive without a script; they flow across the stage and weave fresh stories, urging the audience to indulge in the freedom they have crafted. Other actors worship a script; they take what they need from the ink so they can command their scenes with an iron fist, insisting that the audience revisit old material with new awe. If these actors come together, their stories will be raw, and authentic, and true." -Gene Cousineau, Hit Your Mark and Say Your Lines





	The First Rule of Improvisation

“Uh,” Barry says, struggling to keep his hands from diving into his pockets, “I don’t think we should do that.”

“Let me stop you right there!” Gene’s voice cuts through the theater, and Barry flinches as his mentor gets up and makes his way to the stage. Barry glances at Nick, his current scene partner, and gives a brief shrug as if to say, ‘I don’t know what I did.’ Nick gives him a wan thumbs up in return. Thanks, Nick.

Gene rubs at his forehead and sighs before his eyes roll up to pin Barry with a _look_.

“Barry, what is the first rule of improvisation?”

“Uhh...”

“Jesus. The first rule; never deny your partner! You have to go along with whatever is proposed, otherwise you can’t help each other reach your full potential in the scene,” Gene chastises, gesturing at Nick. Barry shuffles from foot to foot and swallows.

“But what if my character doesn’t think Nick’s plan is very good? What if it ends up being a disaster?” Barry protests mildly. Gene places his hands on his hips.

“Let it _be_ a disaster! Improv happens every day, Barry. You’re always going to be greeted by unexpected circumstances, and you can’t deny them when they come to you! Even if they don’t make you happy, at least you’ll be _getting_ somewhere. At least something will be _happening_. If you can’t say ‘yes’ to your partner, the story will never progress—you’ll be stuck at a dead-end with no more material to work with.”

After class is over, Barry finds himself sitting on a bench outside of a trendy coffee shop, scrolling through his phone without actually reading anything.

Cousineau’s words make Barry think about what _else_ he may be doing wrong. Saying ‘yes’ to Fuches was what kept him in a rut for years on end, and Cousineau was the one that actually encouraged him to put his foot down. So what should he be saying ‘yes’ to? Acting still seems so contradictory, and Barry feels much more comfortable with a script.

Barry’s thoughts are interrupted when his phone buzzes in his pocket; when he checks the notification, he sees a text from Hank.

‘We are working TOO hard!! Taking a break...’ There are two emojis that are...sweating? ‘Come to the boardwalk with me!’ Followed by a distressed emoji with crossed fingers.

A crease forms in Barry’s brow on principle, and he’s already typing a reply—telling Hank to go get lost in the woods—when Gene’s voice rings in the back of his head. This is improvisation—life requires improvisation. If he turns down Hank’s request, what is he going to do? He’ll sit on this bench a little while longer before shuffling back to his sorry excuse for an apartment, where he’ll be bored out of his mind with no current script to read. He’ll watch TV and check the class group chat a few times. End scene.

If he says ‘yes’ to Hank, at least he’ll be trying something new. He can think of it as homework, and if he hates it, he can go home whenever he wants. Barry sucks his teeth, deletes his original rejection, and sends Hank a simple ‘okay.’

Which is how Barry ends up waiting on the edge of a boardwalk—one that he picked out since Hank doesn’t seem to care that there are a thousand goddamn boardwalks in California, and you can’t just fucking say you want to meet somebody at ‘the boardwalk.’

It’s a Friday night, so the vicinity is fairly packed; the crowd makes Barry less nervous than it did back when he first moved out here. The Ferris wheel is a rotating cycle of twinkling lights, and Barry can faintly hear a Rod Stewart song emanating from...somewhere beneath the crowd’s loud chatter. There’s a purple glow encompassing the entire boardwalk, and Barry doesn’t really notice it until Hank appears beside him, a sudden burst of color on a smooth, pale head.

“Barry!” Hank exclaims, spreading his arms. “I did not think you’d come! But I’m glad you did; we are going to have such a great time,” Hank says definitively, placing his hands on his hips.

Barry’s eyes quickly dart up and down, taking in the usual tight cling of Hank’s purple, patterned tank top. Also the loose, baggy cargo pants. And then there’s a pair of flip-flops, but Barry makes his eyes snap back to the shoreline before his brain can compute painted toenails.

“If you say so,” Barry bites out, suddenly wishing he had a baseball cap to help shield himself from the boardwalk. At least the cover of night makes him feel less exposed.

“Come on, let’s go, I’m _starving_,” Hank stresses, grabbing Barry by the forearm and tugging him into the thick of it all, “I have not had single thing to eat since breakfast! Phone call after phone call, can’t be good for skin. Hope my eyes aren’t as tired as yours, my goodness.” Barry glares down at Hank’s head, but doesn’t say anything. Do his eyes really look that bad?

Barry vaguely notices Hank reprimanding him for drizzling ketchup onto his fries instead of using the packet as a dipping pouch, but otherwise the next few minutes pass by uneventfully. Hank rambles and raves while Barry thinks about other things—it always happens like this, and it’s not that Barry wants to be rude, but he has a hard time shutting down the white noise in the back of his head. Fuches looms over his shoulders no matter how independent he tries to be. The guilt stacks on top of unspoken obligations; as such, Barry can’t bring himself to have a fulfilling conversation about the general safety of boardwalk roller-coasters.

He _wants_ to, though. He wants to indulge in small talk and mindless observations. He wants to forget for a few moments and just let himself improvise, like Gene said he should.

“Am I boring?” Barry asks out of the blue, before he can think better of it. He even interrupts Hank, who looks at him with a quirked brow. Hank tosses his already-empty cup of fries into the nearest trashcan and scoffs with disbelief.

“Barry! You are such a badass! So impressive, so cool, man. Who can compare to your skill, huh? Who has moves like Barry?” Hank praises with a smile on his face. He takes a long sip of his soda. Barry frowns.

“Yeah, okay, but am I _boring_? Like am I fun to be around?” There’s a beat, and Barry realizes that his voice sounded meeker than it should. Hank stares at him with relative blankness, and Barry shifts under the scrutiny. Nearby, a jovial alarm sounds when someone wins a carnival game.

“..._I _have fun when I’m with you,” Hank admits—so honestly that Barry does a double-take. It makes his heart briefly jump into his throat. “Do other people not have fun with you, Barry?” Hank asks softly.

“I...I don’t know,” Barry admits.

He has no idea how to see himself through a third-person lens. He doesn’t have a clue what people see when they look at him; what they could possibly value or dismiss. When Barry looks in the mirror, he just sees…Barry. A plain guy with a dull apartment and a cellphone that didn’t have any contacts in it until earlier this year. A guy with hands that are too dirty—too bloody for him to consider linking his fingers with another person’s.

“I guess that’s why I asked,” Barry shoves a few fries in his mouth and talks around them, grateful for the distraction as they continue to walk. “My acting coach says that I’m not very spontaneous.”

That startles a harsh bark of laughter out of Hank, and Barry has enough sense to be offended.

“_What_?” Barry snaps, bitterly sucking salt off of his thumb. Hank grins from ear to ear.

“Barry, just because I enjoy your company does not mean I think you are _flexible_, yeah? You are very methodical man. Strategies for every little thing in life; no room for confetti, no sprinkles on cake.”

Barry narrows his eyes and scrambles for a counterargument.

“One time I bought Sally a laptop because I wanted to,” Barry protests. The look that Hank gives him is almost pitying, and Barry finds it irritating. He feels like he’s being reprimanded by Gene for breathing incorrectly again.

“No, my friend,” Hank shakes his head and lifts a finger, “You bought laptop for girl to gain favor. You bought it with an endgame in mind. You wanted her to be happy _at_ you. But what do you do to make _Barry_ happy? No ulterior motive.”

Barry never viewed the laptop thing as untoward or weird, and he certainly doesn’t like thinking of it as a way of buying Sally’s affection. But he did buy it while daydreaming about picnics and botanical gardens, and all the other sappy shit that couples do. She could have just gotten her screen repaired. Barry didn’t buy the laptop on a whim, by definition.

Barry bites his lip and looks around at the shuffling crowd, full of families and teenagers. He sees two men, walking hand-in-hand, and it briefly feels like someone’s dumped ice down the back of his shirt. His eyes flicker to Hank, who’s looking up at him with unstoppered curiosity, his mouth curving over the tip of his bendy straw. Barry isn’t sure if he wants to inch closer or take six steps back.

“Uhhh,” Barry says. If Gene were here, he’d strangle him on sight. Luckily, Hank only chuckles and rolls his eyes. He elbows Barry in the arm. Barry almost drops his fries.

“Come on, man,” Hank encourages, “do you have a Switch? Do you like bowling? Do you listen to any podcasts? Help a guy out.”

Barry is, at all times, overwhelmed by the amount of things that he has not done. Ever since he came back to America, his life has been about as expansive as the inside of a Tupperware container. He watched whatever TV shows were available in hotel rooms, and after spending Fuches’ meager offerings on food, supplies, and ammunition, he never had a budget for leisure.

“I guess, uh,” Barry says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I can play darts?”

“You can play darts!” Hank exclaims, like he’s found the holy grail. “You _like_ to play darts?”

“I think so?” Barry bites the inside of his cheek. He lets Hank gently take his cup of fries and toss it into the garbage. It’s weird, and he has to convince his faulty brain that Hank is neither coddling nor making fun of him. Again, it’s weird—thinking about the normal things that people like, and wondering whether or not he’s even capable of accessing those things.

“Well, let’s find out for sure!” Hank insists, grabbing Barry by the arm and leading him down a wide aisle of carnival game stalls. Barry’s world becomes singular, focused on the toned arm that’s wrapped around his own in a comfortable vice. The cacophony of weekend entertainment is drowned out as Hank weaves him between groups and (other) pairs that _aren’t_ pointedly staring at him, no matter how hard his brain tries to believe that they are.

The moment is over just as soon as it started, and Barry is still buffering when Hank stops them in front of a stall. Before Barry can protest, Hank is pulling out a few dollar bills and handing them to the young woman working behind the counter.

“Pop three balloons and get something small, pop five and get one of the animals,” the woman grins, not bored with her job, but not over the top with it. Barry blinks up at the multi-colored animals hanging from the stall ceiling. There’s a round, blue whale that he fixates on for some reason, and he tries not to feel pressured by Hank’s excited clapping. He’s played darts several times in random bars since returning to America, but he doesn’t play as often as he used to. Barry tests the weight of a dart, squints, and tosses it toward the back panel.

Much to Barry’s surprise, he actually pops a balloon, and Hank smacks him on the shoulder with delight. It takes a few seconds for Barry to realize that he’s grinning at his own tiny victory. He clears his throat and schools his features, not completely willing to give himself over to humoring Hank.

He fails to pop the next balloon, succeeds with the next three, and ends up feeling a small spike of anxiety when he eyes his final dart. If he misses, he won’t be getting the whale.

What’s he even going to do with a stuffed whale? Keep it in his apartment? A grown man’s bland, gray apartment? Is he going to give it to one of his classmates, just so he doesn’t have to hang onto it? Why is he so determined to--?

Hank is looking at him again, and Barry hopes the shifting lights of the boardwalk camouflage the red forming on his cheeks. At least if he doesn’t win the whale, Hank won’t act like Barry hung the moon.

The final ‘pop’ makes Barry’s eyes widen—the girl behind the counter claps politely, with an honest little smile, and Hank fucking cheers with a corny degree of pride that makes Barry wish for another baseball cap to hide under.

“Oh my God, I was like, so worried that you wouldn’t do it! But look at how good you are, Barry! I didn’t even think people could win at these things, honestly,” Hank acts like they’re in an aside, even though the worker gives him a coy look.

“Who are you taking home?” The girl asks, adjusting her ponytail. Barry’s brain flat lines.

“What?” Barry asks with wide eyes, his sneakers squeaking against the wooden planks beneath him. The girl gestures at the overhead animals.

“Which animal do you want?” She asks. Barry visibly winces, his eyes screwing shut for a second. Christ. He jerks an arm stiffly toward the roster.

“The uh, the whale.”

“Aww, Barry, that is so cute!” Hank is clearly pleased with his choice, and once the whale is in Barry’s arms, he notices how soft it is. He resists the urge to squeeze it like a middle-schooler and opts for nodding at the stall worker and taking his leave.

“Well, did you like it?” Hank asks, shuffling quickly to keep up with Barry’s long legs. Barry notices his change in pace and slows down—it’s like he was trying to get away from something, but he wouldn’t be able to say what it was.

Did he have fun? Barry looks down at his prize and decides that he did. He earned something for himself, even if it was a little juvenile. It’s something that he gets to keep, and it isn’t something that Fuches needs to approve of; it’s not something that he can threaten to take away from Barry.

Barry also thinks about Gene, and the homework that he constantly has to think about—drawing from real feelings and experiences in order to make himself a better actor. Barry thinks he can use this in class. He can picture the whale with full clarity and texture, and it’s a lot more interesting than a can of soup.

If he hadn’t said ‘yes’ to Hank’s invitation, he wouldn’t have this under his belt. He wouldn’t really think about liking darts. Or something soft. Barry looks over at Hank. Or something else.

“I had fun with it,” Barry says, a hesitant grin threatening to form on his face. Hank’s eyes sparkle, and Barry can’t keep blaming everything on the Ferris wheel lights.

“That’s so wonderful!” Hank says. He takes another sip of his soda and makes a noise, like a light bulb went off over his head. “We have to keep riding this high, man! See what else you like; we’ll make a party guy out of you before the night is over.”

“I don’t know about ‘party guy,’” says Barry. Hank scoffs, and when he grabs Barry’s arm again, Barry is transported to a very special hell. It’s a hell he visited earlier this year, back when he made eye contact with a dancing Sally from across a bar. Barry’s beginning to wonder if this is how he feels with anyone that gives him validation. If he’s doomed to have his knees buckle when he goes through the same motions that everyone else went through in college.

“Barry, what about cotton candy? We should get some.” Hank’s tone leaves no room for argument.

“I haven’t had any in years,” Barry admits. How many pathetic confessions will it take for Hank to think that Barry’s past the point of no return?

“Oh, you are going to love it,” Hank says, and the way he speaks makes it seem like trivial indulgences are the easiest things on planet Earth. Hank lives for new Starbucks concoctions and scandalous celebrity drama. He walks on water whenever Barry feels like he’s staggering across hot coals. Barry wants it to become easier. He wants to feel the same way that Gene seems to whenever he gets a text from Janice. He caught a flicker of that when he first met Sally, but he wants more—he wants to improvise organically and have that improvisation click with another person; bounce off of them like an honest reflection.

Barry has a long list of things that Fuches always told him he’d never be able to have—Barry wants all of them.

Cotton candy wasn’t exactly on that list, but it’s another small rebellion in the face of phony savoir faire. Barry and Hank share one large, pink puff of sugar, and Barry anticipates the shrinking of the mass; when he and Hank may touch each other’s fingers as they pull off sections of fluff.

Barry likes the taste, and he likes how unhealthy it is. He tells Hank as much, and Hank fucking laughs and laughs, and encourages Barry’s streak of discovery. Barry—with his new whale tucked under his arm—eats the cotton candy in peace and listens to Hank make more suggestions about the boardwalk.

That’s how they end up looking at tacky t-shirts, making fun of some sad bastard with a mullet, and arguing about whether or not they should get their faces painted (Barry decides that he can only handle but so much). That’s also how they end up in line for the Ferris wheel.

The wheel’s carts are enclosed spaces with glass windows. Hank must be picking up on Barry’s shifted vibe, but Barry’s going to just let him assume that he doesn’t like heights. Really, Barry’s just fine with heights; he used to ride in rickety helicopters for a living. It’s just the inherent romcom nature of a Ferris wheel that activates Barry’s fight or flight.

Glancing subtly over his shoulder, Barry sees that there are plenty of couples waiting in line behind them. Isn’t this something he should be doing with Sally? Better question; shouldn’t he _want_ to be doing this with Sally?

It helps that she rejected him so soundly. Repeatedly. But as the weeks crept by, Barry lost less and less sleep over it.

Barry glimpses at Hank and seems him smiling down at his phone. Maybe texting Cristobal. At least Barry knows what he’s going to lose sleep over next.

Maybe improvisation was a bad idea. If he’d just stayed at home and ignored Hank’s text, he wouldn’t be here having a crisis every time he wants to DM Sasha and ask her about the semantics of bisexuality. He wouldn’t be face to face with the writing on the wall—that Hank has been here since day one, and Barry wouldn’t be able to chase him off with a pitchfork. That Hank just seems to _like_ him, for whatever reason, and Barry doesn’t know how to handle it. Hasn’t known how to handle it for months, which is why he brushes off and insults Hank by default. Which is why he’s kind of _been_ up shit creek without a paddle, but hasn’t had to stand under a microscope because he hasn’t _willingly marched onto a boardwalk for something that looks and sounds exactly like a date_.

Barry feels like an idiot, and yet again resists the urge to squeeze his whale for emotional support. It’s kind of sad when stuffed whales are the only accessible therapy.

Barry must also _look_ like an idiot, because the wheel attendant makes a face at him, like ‘what the hell is your problem?’ Barry glares resolutely and doesn’t break the icy eye contact until he’s fully seated in the carriage.

Across from him, Hank is oblivious to the exchange as he gets himself comfortable. He crosses his legs and wags his foot back and forth. The black nail polish is still there, and Barry hates that the wheel is already moving again, and that it’s too late to abandon ship.

“Oh, this is so cool,” Hank beams, shifting closer to the exterior window, “I’ve been in California for long time now, but have never been on one of these.”

“Really?” Barry asks. It comes as a surprise that Barry’s done something that Hank hasn’t, even if he hasn’t been on a Ferris wheel since he was in middle school.

“Barry, I’m no big fan of heights,” Hank confides with wide eyes and a grin, “but you made it seem so chill, no problem, no stress. You’re so fearless, man. Not scared of anything!”

Barry frowns at that.

“I’m scared of plenty of shit,” he admits before he can think better of it. They’re slowly inching towards the top of the wheel. “I’m scared of shit all the fucking time,” he mutters bitterly.

“You...” Hank, for once, is clearly unsure of what to say. Barry bites his lip. His brow creases.

“I’m so scared of trying anything new. It’s why you have to fuckin’ baby me through all of this ‘normal people social cues’ garbage. I’m scared of disappointing my acting class, I’m scared of Fuches hacking his way back into my life with a machete, I’m scared of getting a different brand of fucking pasta sauce at the grocery store, Hank. The only reason I’m not scared of shooting a gun is because I did it too much for too long.”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches on too long for Barry’s liking. He dares to look over at Hank, whose expression is unreadable. Out of fear of making things awkward, Barry goes to apologize, but not before being interrupted by Hank.

“You are trying new things now, though. Even though you are scared. You want to make compromises, and you hate escalation, but you handle things as they come. As best you can. That is why I do not think you are boring, Barry. I’m not here to judge you for shit you don’t like, or don’t understand. I am here because I like you, and I think more people will like you when you let yourself share all these things.”

Barry finds that he’s staring out the window with his jaw slightly dropped—out at the twinkling lights of LA. If his eyes sting, that’s his own business. His thumb runs back and forth over the stuffed toy in his lap.

“Barry,” Hank’s voice is as soft as the fabric beneath Barry’s fingers, “I want to ask why you agreed to come with me. I didn’t think you would.”

Barry’s head turns, and it feels like time crawls by as slowly as their carriage shifts through the air. Hank’s face is washed in purples, blues, and pinks, and he’s wearing an understanding yet bittersweet expression. Barry sees Hank’s mouth move; ‘Barry?’ But he doesn’t really hear him. His ears are ringing and he closes his eyes.

Pulling himself forward, hands reaching out for the sides of Hank’s face, Barry feels his knee bump into Hank’s. The kiss doesn’t land perfectly, as Barry is too scared to open his eyes and correct himself, but he does feel how smooth Hank’s bottom lip is. He hears the faint, wet click of their mouths coming together. Barry feels his nose curve against Hank’s. He also feels Hank’s hands curl and tighten in the fabric of Barry’s jacket.

When Barry works up the nerve to pull away, his mind is thankfully blank. Optimism and pride occur to him first, and the fear doesn’t have time to manifest itself, because Hank’s fists are still clinging to his jacket.

Hank has a relieved look on his face; his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are watery. He looks as if he’s wanted this for months, but was always too polite and too knowing to ask for something that Barry wasn’t ready to give.

“Barry,” Hank exhales, smiling, “spontaneous is a very good look on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos mean a lot to me!! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my au where nothing bad happens and Barry is happy at least sometimes
> 
> If you're also in Bill Hader hell and like IT content, feel free to check out my Reddie fics, as well! >:3c


End file.
